


Even When You're Lost

by Maggie_Tulliver, SophiaSoames



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: A cup of tea solves everthing everytime (well almost), Alcohol, Anal Sex, Angst, Based on that rumour, Beard relationships, Bottom Harry, Bottom Louis, Brief mention of m/f relationship, Canon-Compliant, Consensual Sex, Daddy Kink, Drunken sass, Dunkirk movie, Gay Sex, HOT SMUT, Los Angeles, M/M, Magic Hangover pills, Mature discussions, No holding back, Oral Sex, Pacts, Recreational Drug Use, Shame, Snapchat, Tattoo meanings, Tattoos, The Dallas Incident, The Orlando Incident, Whatsapp, graphic depictions of sex, make-up sex, total fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-15
Updated: 2016-11-15
Packaged: 2018-08-31 02:32:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8559949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maggie_Tulliver/pseuds/Maggie_Tulliver, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SophiaSoames/pseuds/SophiaSoames
Summary: "I'm asking you, Louis. You keep showing up in the middle of the night completely off your tits. In the morning you bugger off without a word, ashamed." Louis opens his mouth to protest but Harry cuts him off, not exactly angry, but firm, and on a roll. "We both know that's what it is. Where was your shame this morning?"By now Louis realises Harry is not going to make it easy for him. He plunges for honesty. "I don't know. I don´t know. I just didn't want to run away this time. I wanted to speak to you. I am sick of..." He stops. It is too much, too soon. He doesn't think Harry wants to know this anymore.ORThe night Louis went AWOL while out clubbing in LA, and when someone asked his security guard where he was, he said "he's gone to Harry's"...Title and chapter titles from our favourite 1D song: Something Great.





	1. Rip It All To Shreds

**Author's Note:**

> A MASSIVE shoutout to the Larry Shands gang. Ladies, you are beyond awesome, and we could not have done this without you. Special thanks to Luckystar for her advice and utterly 100% positive support and encouragement!

****_He re-checks that the cubicle door is locked, shoves the tip of the rolled up note in his left nostril (the one less clogged up with shit from earlier; he checked) and leans over the pile of tiny white crumbs, ready to snort the umpteenth line of the night._

_He is wasted, he knows that. Stupidly drunk and fucked on the superior cocaine only money and the very best LA connections can provide. He should have stopped earlier, drunk some water, sobered up a bit. But fuck if his life does not grant him getting wasted. There he is, out with his mates,_ partying _like popstars are supposed to, picking out the cutest girls in the club and having his security bring them over, buying them drinks, flirting with them, sometimes even fucking them._

_The latest one to enjoy “the full Tommo” is out with them again tonight. She is a pretty brunette who is “just your type”, according to Oli. (Which translates as “she looks a bit like some other girl you have been out with”. When were_ girls _his type, anyway?). Not that he remembers the actual sex with her; all he knows is that a few days ago, after a night of increasing and blurred excess just like tonight, he came to in his bed and she was lying next to him, asleep or passed out, who knows. Both naked from the waist down, so draw your own conclusions._

_And all the while, while he drinks, flirts, gets high and occasionally fucks, he is only pretending to have fun. All the while, the memory of what he could have had and didn't, what was once and isn't, is always there, in the back of his mind, like some CIA-devised torturous background noise._

_He is poised over the beginning of the line, ready to inhale. He knows what comes next: a feeling of invincibility, slightly weaker than the one he got from the previous line (which in turn was weaker than the previous one, and so on, in ever-decreasing circles). Feeling amazing, wise, full of verbose bonhomie. Fidgeting as the effects wear off. Going back for more._

_Christ. He cannot do this anymore. He really cannot. He_ knows _what he wants._

_He stands up, drops the $20 note and leaves it on the cistern, next to the coke. Some sod will be grateful to find both – even VIP toilets in poncy LA nightclubs have scroungers (_ especially _VIP toilets in poncy LA nightclubs)._

_And he really is past giving a shit._

_He leaves the toilet, unsteady on his feet but single-minded, now, in his purpose. Without re-joining his crew, he beckons Mike, the security guard closest by, and slurs in his ear: “Take me to his house.”_

_*** * * *** _

The sun had set long ago and the breeze from the ocean was by now rather cool. Harry loved sitting out here on those rare evenings when he wasn't working, just letting the sun set and wrapping himself up in a blanket when the chill started to sneak in. He had loved this house from the start, right on the beach. The terrace was high up and shielded from view. The entrance was private, and he even had a small “yard” (he loved these Americanisms) at the front which he had lovingly filled with pots of flowers and fresh herbs. The rooms were light and airy, and it was not too big, not too small. It was simply pretty much perfect.

He reluctantly got up, trying to keep the blanket around him while bringing in the empty wine glass, the script he had been lazily reading and his phone, which had been pinging notifications like some deranged Christmas toy all evening long. Louis and the lads were obviously out partying again, and, judging by the amount of posts and messages Louis had sent, he was pretty far gone. Twitter, Snapchat, Instagram, Whatsapp... He had probably used them all this evening, which was never a good sign. He only ever contacted Harry when he was like this, wasted, needy and emotional, and Harry should definitely know better than let it affect him, or, God forbid, reply. It was never good. It never ended well.

He walked into the kitchen, still wrapped up in his blanket, and flicked the kettle on. His phone pinged again. Some girl replying to Louis without realising, or perhaps caring, that she was on a group chat, asking him to come over to hers, to call her. Harry needed to get a grip and stop looking at his phone. No good would come of it, he knew that. He should just have a cup of tea and go to sleep. Maybe watch another Nolan movie as research – perhaps The Prestige, this time. He was in the mood for magicians.

Harry Styles was not a melancholy person, at least not outwardly. Naturally kind, cheerful and witty, his massive easy grin, usually foretold by a slow smirk, brought men and women alike to their knees. He had a skill for making others laugh and putting them at ease, an instinctive desire for making those around him happy if he could at all contribute to it, and this combined with his arresting good looks to make him well-liked by all, everywhere. He knew he had been a lucky bastard pretty much all his life, never more so than in the last four and a half years. And that was just the beginning. Since new management had started taking an interest in him, incredible opportunities had opened up, and the film was the most incredible one of all. He had a lot to be grateful and happy for.

Nonetheless, golden Harry had what some might unfashionably term "a hidden depth". Sadness would sometimes wash over him, superficially rooted in some real-life event but generally unexplained in its strength. Nostalgia and regret were more familiar to him than perhaps they ought to be to a 21-year-old multi-millionaire popstar with the whole world at his feet, one who was about to break out on his own and achieve further intergalactic fame.

This side of him manifested itself in his song writing. Harry, ever keen to be considered more than just a teen popstar, proudly thought of it as his artistic streak. His lyrics often made reference to being lost; lost was exactly how he felt when in the grip of these moments of sadness, regret and nostalgia. Like he had strayed too far from his own natural, happy self, and was struggling to find his way back.

And he never felt more lost than when a particular set of events upset the balance of his carefully managed thoughts of Louis Tomlinson.

Just like he accepted his melancholy streak, Harry had come to accept his ever-present mixed-up, unresolved feelings about Louis. He told himself that the past was the past and there was no point in going over what had happened. He told himself that was not the way love was, that love was here, where Harry lived. And he survived. He felt in control of his destiny, romantically and professionally. He was doing well; he had moved on. Yes, his current relationship was safe, and it was a little hard to unpick where the professional side ended and the romantic one began, but Harry never felt lost in it, and he was willing to forego the highs if it meant being spared any heart-wrenching lows.

Still... One more look would do no harm. He flicked the elastic off his arm, put his hair up in a twist on his head, and leant down on the counter cradling the phone in his hands.

Louis' private Instagram was now showing a picture of him with the type of girl that officially passed off as his type. If Harry had not been taken over by a vivid and frankly shocking pang of irrational jealousy, he would have produced a hollow laugh. If anyone knew what Louis' type was, it was Harry. Breasts and vaginas were not on the menu – no matter how much Louis tried to tell himself that they were.

Retracting his metaphorical claws, and bracing himself for more torture that he felt powerless to sidestep, he continued staring at his phone. As his thumb carried on swiping along the screen, Harry wondered with thrilling unease if this would be one of those “wild nights” that ended up with Louis showing up at his door. No explanation, the usual hot mess (Harry's dick twitched at the mere thought) barely able to stand or speak. They had not happened in a few weeks. He tried to tell himself that he did not have the strength to deal with another random visit, but he knew well that he always would have the strength to accept Louis, no matter how obnoxious a state he was in, no matter what came afterwards. It was part of the deal he had made with himself in order to move on, part of his promise. He would look after himself and his bruised heart, but he would not change.

The tea had almost gone cold by now, and he had spilled some milk and made a mess on the white marble counter, but he just couldn’t be arsed to care. He picked up his cup and phone and shuffled towards the living room dragging the blanket along the floor. He could still hear the ocean behind the closed terrace door, but it didn’t fill him with calm anymore. More wine or, ideally, a bong would probably help right now, but Harry had learnt to be sensible. He loved to indulge and was at his wittiest, sexiest, most outrageous best when under the influence, from slightly buzzed to off-his-face (he was, after all, a fucking popstar), but there was a time and a place, and if he was going to make his run in the morning and the meeting afterwards, self-medication was not a good idea.

He sat back, put his feet on the coffee table and flicked his phone back on. Another message from Louis. Just a simple ‘’fuck this’’. Harry sighed, and had to stop himself hitting Reply. What was the point? Louis was not his responsibility anymore. He had people there to look after him and get him home in one piece. There was still a tiny piece of Harry that longed to call him and just say ‘’hey’’, and the thought of cuddling up to Louis, hearing him laugh, made Harry’s heart ache with longing. The memory of the Instagram pics and the girl’s comments came back, though, and Harry was pretty sure that Louis was already half way to her house by now, looking for some relief and a bed for the night. And he would probably stay, not get up and sneak out like some teenager scared of getting caught. Harry threw the phone across the sofa and sighed again. A film it would be, then. And more tea.

_*** * * *** _

_He has sobered up now, he lies to himself. He is nursing a sudden feeling of panic. It was a stupid thing to do. He doesn't even know if Harry is home, or, even worse, if he has company. He has a feeling there is a boyfriend on the scene, some old fogey useful to Harry's career, and the thought of not being welcome makes his chest seize with unease and shame._

_The car, crawling through late-night LA traffic, is making him slightly queasy as well. He should have sat up front, but he is not feeling up to chit-chat with Mike. He just wants a cuddle from Harry. And he kind of wants to cry._

_He knows it is all his fault, really. Harry had wanted it all – a proper relationship, living together openly,_ coming out. _He was ready to face up to everyone: the ones who already knew, the ones who guessed, and the ones who insisted on denying it because it suited them. Harry was a fearless bastard._

_Louis, alas, lacked such courage. He could not handle the monster that Larry Stylinson had become; he felt the entire notion closing in on him, oppressing and shaming him. The questions, the hints, the speculation about his sexuality, the endless fucking Tumblr dissections._

_And he had been a spoilt brat about it. Conveniently ignoring the fact that, in the beginning, he had been the first one to get off on feeding the Larry rumour – making mischief at every opportunity with a glint in his eye, while Harry went along, mouth slack and eyes glazed in sheer adoration – he had blamed Harry for how “out of hand” things had got. It was cruel, and it broke Harry's heart, he knew that. But he was too scared of the alternative. He didn't have the balls to walk off into the sunset holding Harry's hand._

_So they made a pact and shared a handshake of trust. They would kill off Larry Stylinson. Don’t confirm, don’t deny. No touching, no jokes, no contact, no public interaction of any kind. No comment. Nothing whatsoever that would give their fans' fevered imaginations an inch to play with. Louis as the hyper-straight party boy, and Harry as the A-list womaniser._

_(How spectacularly did that plan backfire, Louis smiles bitterly to himself.)_

_Harry, heartbroken but distraught at the pain Louis was in, always loving and understanding, had agreed to the pact. He had even had it tattooed on his elbow. “Every time you think you have forgotten I will shove my fucking elbow in your face and remind you,” he had said, his eyes dead with pain. He had done what he always did: he had put Louis first. And he had let him go, believing that is what Louis needed and wanted._

_The car changes lanes with a jerk, and Louis thinks he is going to splatter the back seat with the contents of his stomach. He unclips his seatbelt and curls up on the backseat like a child, holding his knees to his chest in an effort to curb the nausea._

_God, he is a fucked up mess. Harry is all he can think about; he needs him to put him back together, to sort him out. The only thing that he knows will fix him is Harry holding him so tight that their bodies kind of merge back together and make him whole again._

_*** * * *** _

He must have fallen asleep, because the sound of the alarm made him jump so hard he jolted forwards off the sofa landing on his knees by the coffee table. Someone was definitely inside the gate and outside the front door. The alarm was set to go off with movement, but to get through the gate you had to punch in the access code, and then disable the alarm once inside, which whoever was outside hadn’t done. Harry was going into panic mode. Not many people knew the code. His security team, some of his management…

“Fuck… Fuckety fuck,” he muttered. It could be Louis. It was the same code that Harry used for everything else, and Louis could well remember it. Of course it would be him. Harry looked out the spyhole, his hand already on the safety latch. There was someone sitting on the steps, hunched over. Harry would have recognized that shape anywhere. He disabled the alarm quickly – the last thing this highly promising mess of situation needed was the LAPD showing up and throwing their weight about – and leant his forehead on the door, closing his eyes. This was not good. Not good at all. He gently banged his head against the door, saying to himself “here we go again” as he opened it just in time to catch Louis gripping the edges of Harry’s carefully planted pot of bougainvillea seedlings. And Louis retched, a wave of muscle spasms travelling up his body as he threw up into the wet soil, falling down on his knees, sobbing as last night’s dinner reappeared over the tiny seedlings.

Endless seconds later, Louis weaved in through the front door that Harry was wordlessly holding open for him, and threw himself on the sofa, no “hello”, as predicted. With an arm flung over his eyes, and to no one in particular, he slurred: “Did you know that when a man ejaculates the jizz shoots out at 27 miles per hour?”

Harry's chuckle was instant. _“_ Come on LouLou. Let's get you to bed, _”_ he said, grabbing hold of Louis' arm and helping him up. Louis was docile and compliant – Harry's stomach went down two levels at just how compliant, and at the sharp contrast with how Lou used to behave in bed. Bossy. In control. Daddy.

As well as docile, this Lou was in a chatty, expansive mood: “I couldn't be there anymore, Hazza. I hate it. I can't do it anymore. I know I'm fucked, but I'm telling you. No more.” Harry had heard it all before. “Sorry about your plants too,” he slurred. “Car sick.”

“Yeah, right, Lou,” Harry replied, instantly slipping into their old banter as if into a pair of old, comfie slippers. “Car sick. Not endless shots of tequila and a lot of that titanium-strength blow Oli gets you? You're gurning and stink like a distillery. A big one.”

Louis giggled as Harry led him down the corridor to the spare room, his eyes still half-shut and a drunken smile on his lips, slurring and incoherent but clear as day to Harry's well-trained ear: “Do you remember Dallas, Hazza? Sucked your cock in the toilet... Fans outside... Paul banging on the door... Hurry up... Looked so fucking wrecked for the whole signing... I did that,” he finished, proudly, nodding and smiling to himself.

Harry remembered Dallas. He remembered it well. He would not admit this to anyone, but he still masturbated to Dallas, sometimes gently and meanderingly, sometimes fast and furiously. Whichever way, he always came like a train, practically seeing fucking stars. Lou on his knees, the sound of sucking and slurping coming up from down below, his mouth enveloping Harry's rock-hard cock so warmly and wetly and completely that Harry had to lean his head against the wall and shove his fist in his mouth to stop himself from screaming. His hips involuntarily fucking into Lou's mouth, and Lou's approving hum whenever he did that. His knees bucking as he came. Snogging Lou right after and licking into his mouth to taste himself on Lou's tongue. The thrill from nearly being caught, and from smiling at several hundred fans all afternoon – while high as a kite on an almighty orgasm that he relived every time he caught Lou's eye.

Harry stopped himself. This was not the time to reminisce about Dallas – he had already entered semi territory and he still had to help Louis out of his clothes. He sat him down on the bed and, without really meaning to, lovingly knelt in front of him, undid his Adidas and wriggled them off his feet, then took his socks off.

Lou was still talking, just a jumble of words and sounds by now: “Oli said... I fucked her, maybe?... The good champagne (giggle)... Such a little shhhh...”. Harry took a deep breath and wriggled off his skinnies while Louis obligingly lifted up his hips, still docile like a child. His cock was inches away from Harry's face. Harry paused. He could have done anything he wanted with Lou right now – he knew Lou wouldn't fight it, and Harry's dick had moved on beyond semi, as his seemingly inexhaustible lust for Louis took over with the usual speed and strength. Some things never changed.

He remembered with stabbing clarity that Louis wasn’t here to declare his undying love for Harry, or even match his desire with the same intensity. It wasn't even a quick drunken fuck that he was after. Louis was here because he was wasted and lonely, and because Harry was loyal and steadfast enough to always be there.

He shook off these unwanted thoughts and swung Louis into the bed, tucking him in. By now Louis was safely passed out, so Harry allowed himself a good look, taking everything in: his perfect, half-open lips, his gloriously messy hair, his tanned arms, razor-sharp cheekbones, impossibly long eyelashes. He allowed himself one small, lazy touch, running his finger softly across Louis bottom lip, just a whisper of a touch that still made Harry’s heart constrict. “Enough,” he thought to himself. “It's enough.”

He went to the kitchen to get a bottle of water and two of his miracle hangover pills, the ones banned by the FDA that he could only get in England. His contraband stash was running dangerously low, but he knew they would really make a difference to Louis in the morning, and he wanted him to feel better. He carefully placed those on the bedside table, made a neat pile of the discarded clothes, and checked that the blinds were drawn before getting out again, closing the door as softly as he could. Harry fucking Styles, always at Louis Tomlinson's service.

Harry had been through this whole charade plenty of times before and knew well the score: in the morning, when Harry woke up, Louis would be gone. Or, worse, Harry would overhear him while he quietly called Mike to come get him, his beautiful husky voice cruelly sandpapered by coke, drink and fags, trying to speak softly while clearly in the throes of yet another well-earned hangover. Harry would feel the shame in his voice, another painful stab wound to add to all the previous ones inflicted by Louis – another _medal_ – and would lie in bed until he heard the door slam shut. Trying not to cry, pointlessly fighting the dread and longing that crept up from his gut, and hopelessly wishing that for fucking once Louis would at least say goodbye before he ran off embarrassedly. He would then waste the day in a fog of dull pain, unable to be useful or productive, experiencing everything through the sludge of emotions dredged up by Louis’ visit – emotions Harry time and again bullishly assumed long dead and conquered. The next time he saw Louis – at a signing, an interview, an appearance, one of those crappy stunts their management insisted on having them do – Louis would barely even look at him. There would be no mention at all of the night, as if it had never happened.  
  
Deep down, Harry realised this by now: his feelings for Louis would never be conquered. He would never turn him away at the door; would never have the strength to tell him to get lost. Louis had secured a precious part of Harry when Harry was a fresh-faced 16-year-old, like an explorer planting his flag, and he held it in his grasp, Harry now knew, forever. Endurance was the best to be hoped for. He resigned himself to the inevitable pain that would follow tomorrow and headed to bed, on the way picking up the script, a bottle of water and an Ambien to at least avoid being awake when Louis ran off in the morning.


	2. And Get It Right

_His head is pounding like a motherfucker. He brings his hand to his eyes to shield himself from the streak of painfully bright SoCal sunsine coming through a crack in the blinds that is feeding his headache. He feels an inevitable panic rise through from his gut. He has no fucking clue where he is. He glances across the bed with trepidation, dreading what he will find, but, thank God, the other half looks unslept in and tidy. The water and pills on the bedside table make things a little better, calming him down._

_The only person he knows who keeps magic hangover cures on tap is Harry. It is all coming back to him now; he is at Harry’s. Safe. His head will be better in 10 minutes, too, thanks to the magic of drugs. He sniffs his armpits casually and retches at the smell. He stinks of stale vomit, sweat and tequila, and he nearly throws up again. ‘’Oh, fuck,’’ he says to himself as he remembers his performance on the front steps. Regurgitated tacos never look great the morning after, even if they hadn't spent that long in is stomach._

_He automatically reaches to retrieve his phone from his trouser pocket to call Mike, but something stops him dead on his tracks. Not again. He is not doing this again. He remembers his disorderly thoughts last nigh about missing Harry, needing Harry._

_No. He is not running away again._

_But then, what? Panic takes him over again. An honest, open conversation with Harry? After what happened and what he did to him? After the aborted attempt last December in Orlando? (Three days of loved up, blissed out, non-stop fucking, hardly coming up for air, and then another epic Tomlinson bottle-losing moment followed by the usual runner. Some Christmas present that was. Louis really knows how to screw Harry over). He is not stupid. He knows he has broken Harry's heart more than once. Harry hates him. He doesn't want him here. He only takes him in out of pity and a misplaced sense of duty. Harry has moved on. And a conversation would inevitably lead to some sort of fucking drama. They don't do drama in Yorkshire._

_Without making a decision, he hobbles into the ensuite and turns on the shower, raiding the mirrored cabinet for toiletries. Of course, Harry would have several new toothbrushes, all still in their wrappers, and fancy fluoride-free toothpaste from Wholefoods, for the comfort of his guests. He helps himself. The shelf in the shower is equally well stocked with stupidly expensive men's products._

_Clean and smelling of posh French stuff, Louis comes back out into the room. He holds last night's t-shirt at arms length and decides he'll stay naked if he has to, but he's not wearing_ that. _The jeans are even worse – splattered with dried-up vomit to which some soil has adhered to. He kicks those and the socks into a corner. He looks in the wardrobe and miraculously finds some clean jogging bottoms and a white t-shirt that are only slightly big on him. They are certainly not Harry's; Louis is too skittish to wonder just whose they might be. No pants, but beggars can't be choosers._

_He feels better now. The shower, clean clothes and miracle pills are all helping. He sits on the edge of the bed, phone in hand, and goes back to wondering what to do._

_*** * * *** _

He woke up with a start, instantly remembering with a sinking feeling Louis' visit the previous night. The house felt eerily silent, which meant that at least he had been spared the bloody circus of Louis stage whispering into his phone to arrange a quick pick-up. So today was going to be one of those foggy, non-starter, post-Louis days. No point in postponing the inevitable, he said to himself sitting up in bed. He checked his phone for the time. He had slept longer than he'd planned; that Ambien must have really done its job. Small mercies.

Harry felt his yearning for Louis sit oppressively on his chest as he stepped out of bed and headed for the spare room downstairs. He was keen to strip the bed and air the room before Conchita came. She would never comment – treasured Puerto Rican Conchita, the soul of understanding and discretion, purveyor of the best coffee Harry had ever tasted and his surrogate Latina mum – but Harry wanted to erase signs of last night at the earliest opportunity.

He opened the door to the spare room and was half way towards the window in order to draw the blinds when something stopped him dead in his tracks.

Louis was sitting on the bed, looking wide-eyed at him, as if he'd been busted doing something naughty.

Louis had not left. Louis was still here. AND, Louis was not in the process of comedy whispering into his phone for someone to come get him.

Harry noticed all of these facts simultaneously. “Noticed” was not the right word. “Was sledgehammered by” would be more factually accurate, if still not 100% correct.

For a further split second he continued his assessment of this set of world-stopping facts.

Louis' hair was damp, which meant he'd had a shower, and he was wearing some clothes that Harry vaguely recognised – hang on, were those...? “Get a grip, Styles,” he thought. “The origin of the clothes is immaterial right now.”

All the same, suddenly Harry felt self-conscious about his own attire, which consisted solely of sleep shorts. And thank the fucking Lord above that he hadn't slept in the buff, as was often his wont. Not that these shorts would be any use if he started getting hard, which, Harry wasn't being funny, but with a fresh-smelling, sober-looking, damp-haired, fluffy chop suey a couple of metres away, was A. Distinct. Fucking. Possibility.

_*** * * *** _

Louis watches Harry process everything. He knows it's a lot to take in. He knows Harry never expected him to stay. And he might be imagining this, but he thinks his peripheral vision catches a tiny twitch in Harry's shorts. But his eyes are trained on Harry's face. He is determined to see this, this _whatever_ , this _thing_ , through without shame.

He is terrified.

Harry stares for what feels like ages but isn't. He knows he needs to say something. Louis is looking at him like a disciple waiting for his guru to make a life-changing pronouncement. But Harry does not want to lead with "what are you doing here?". Harry Styles avoids the obvious, and, besides, the question might hurt Louis' feelings.

"How's your head?" is what he settles for.

Louis sags a little, visibly relieved. "Brilliant. Swimming in drugs, thanks to you." He grins. It is not a bad start.

Harry feels the grin go straight to his treacherous dick and a vague feeling of irritation rises. No, they are not doing this the Louis way. Fuck it. "Why did you stay this time?" he shoots, straight from the hip.

Louis flinches and his grin disappears, but he does not look away. He takes a deep breath. "Why do you think?"

"I'm asking _you_ , Louis. You keep showing up in the middle of the night completely off your tits. In the morning you bugger off without a word, ashamed." Louis opens his mouth to protest but Harry cuts him off, not exactly angry, but firm, and on a roll. "We both know that's what it is. Where was your shame this morning?"

By now Louis realises Harry is not going to make it easy for him. He plunges for honesty. "I don't know. I don´t know. I just didn't want to run away this time. I wanted to speak to you. I am sick of..." He stops. It is too much, too soon. He doesn't think Harry wants to know this anymore.

But Harry waits for him to continue. "I am sick of not being with you." With this admission Louis' courage finally deserts him, and he looks down at his hands resting on his lap, but he doesn't stop. "I miss you. It is killing me. Living without you is killing me. I hate what I have become without you. I need you." He stops. There it is. He will take whatever Harry throws back at him now, but at least he has said what he wanted to say.

When Harry doesn't answer right away, Louis' looks back up.

Harry is staring at him, his eyes slowly filling with tears. He is struggling to wrap his head around this. He loves Louis more than the air he breathes. Hell, he _wants_ Louis more than air even right now, but he cannot put himself through this. Not again. Orlando nearly finished him off. He won't live to tell the tale this time.

"What do you expect from me, Lou? This is what you wanted. You. What we signed up for. What we shook on. Remember?" He carries on, his voice rising in volume and lowering in pitch as anger surges and he tries in vain to fight the impulse to cry. He doesn't wait for an answer. "Do you have any idea what it took for me to give you up? You were my first fucking love..."

"You were my first love too, Harry."

"And you chose to piss it up the wall! You didn't have the fucking balls to see it through! You broke my fucking heart! And I keep letting you do it again... Here I am, like an idiot, taking you in when you're pissed after I've watched you flirt with some fucking girl on Snapchat all night..." He stops himself. He is too angry. Not a good look.

"I cannot do this, Lou. I can't." He is not shouting anymore but he is crying, and he runs his hands over his eyes to wipe off the tears. He turns around and with his back to Louis this time, he repeats "I can't do this," as he walks slowly to the door. "Please, just go."

Louis feels an overpowering wave of dread and regret wash over him. Is this it? Was that his big chance and he has wasted it? Will Harry never forgive him? It can't be, it can't. Harry is nearly at the door, still sobbing. Another second and he'll be out of the room, and that will be it forever. Louis cannot bear it. An impulse seizes him as he jumps off the bed and all but runs to the door just as Harry's about to turn the handle. He puts his right hand on the door to keep it shut, to keep Harry from running away. He wraps his left arm round Harry´s waist and brings his mouth to Harry's ear.

"Shhhh. Don't cry, love. My love. I love you. I never stopped loving you. I was an idiot. I am a nob. Please. Please, my love. I love you. Shhh."

The physical contact, Lou's soothing voice, and especially his words all hit Harry, and they hit him hard. He tries to hang on to his fears and concerns - he vaguely believes that is still where safety lies - but they shrink and recede as something far more powerful takes their place, as he feels a piece of his stomach twist and liquefy, and his knees buckle slightly. He rests his forehead on the door while his crying slows down and his breathing normalises.

"Turn around, love. Look at me." Harry hears the gentle entreaty and another layer of resolve fades away. He sags a little more, weakened by the lust and desire coiling in his belly. He cannot fight this. He doesn't want to fight it. He is Louis', he knows this and has always known it. Resistance is futile. He turns around and feels a savage thrill knowing that this is what he is doing. What Louis told him to.

As his gaze lands back on Lou he tries to say his name, but he cannot, because Louis is instantly kissing him. Kissing him with the hunger of a man on death row, the thirst of someone stranded in the desert for days. Harry breathes a sigh of the sweetest surrender that comes out as a low moan. He is melting.

Louis moans back in response as he pins Harry against the door. He is lost in the moment, in the kiss. His hands are on Harry's hips, holding him tightly in place so that he can push against him with his own hips and rub his cock against his thigh, over and over. He snakes his tongue out and slides it against Harry's lips. Harry automatically opens his mouth to allow him to lick into it. Their tongues twist and turn against one another, becoming more and more frantic before slowing down, the natural ebb and flow of the kiss taking over.

Louis pulls off gently. He lets go of Harry´s hips and grabs his hands instead. He brings them over Harry's head and holds them by the wrists against the door with his left hand, letting Harry know that he is in control. He pushes his right knee between Harry´s legs, against his groin. His right hand ghosts over Harry's front and gently pinches and twists his nipples from one to the other and back again. Harry shivers delicately from head to toe and whimpers. His eyes are closed, his mouth is slack, his head leans back. Louis, fuelled by the sight of Harry's entire body lost to wild, aroused abandon, continues to stroke and caress him while he plants soft, wet kisses on Harry´s cheek, on his jaw, nose, neck, while chanting in a low and twangy whisper a mantra of "Harry, my Hazza, mine, my love".

Harry continues to melt into further surrender. He thinks he answers Louis' plea with "yes, yours, yes, yours forever," but he isn't sure if it is actually coming out loud. He is lightheaded and woozy and already gone gone gone. His cock is rock hard, and so is Louis'. He can feel it against his thigh through the jogging bottoms.

Then he says it. He doesn't know he's about to say it until it comes out. All he knows is that right now he wants Louis more than he has ever wanted him, and he knows _how_ he wants him, too.

"Daddy...."

"Fuck, Harry. Fuck." Louis' hips thrust hard against Harry's of their own accord. He feels fierce with power and pent-up longing and wanting, nearly gone gone gone himself. He forces himself to stop, pull back and look Harry straight in the eye. "If you call me that again..."

Harry holds his gaze unashamedly, his eyes heavy-lidded and druggy with need and submission all rolled into one, one of his sexy smirks insinuating itself on the corners of his mouth. He squirms against Louis´cock and leans forward a bit to give Louis' bottom lip a quick lick and a light bite. "Daddy..." he breathes again.

"Please don´t say it if you don't fucking mean it." Louis is determined - despite the fog of lust that appears to have replaced all his cognitive thought, despite Harry's squirming and the way he is rubbing his hard cock against Louis' thigh, slowly and deliberately, over and over - he is determined to do the right thing, to give Harry an out should he want one. "I have never been so turned on in all my life. I want to fuck you from here to Sunday, Haz. If you think it is too soon, I will understand, but you have to stop calling me that."

Harry leans slowly into Louis' ear and whispers in that quieter, submissive voice they both remember so well: "Daddy. I want you to fuck me. Any way you want. For as long as you want. Please."

Louis groans and sucks hard into Harry´s neck, thrusting his hips against Harry's again. And again. And again. Harry matches each thrust with his own. They are rutting like teenagers. They need to stop or one of them, if not both, will come too soon. He slows down and buries his fingers in Harry's long curls, massaging his scap for a second before pulling his hair to tilt his head back and stare into his eyes again for one final wordless plea. He watches Harry lean into the tug as his eyelids flutter and his mouth forms on "o" shape, the mere hint of pain inflicted by Louis a turn-on for him.

Louis growls, his voice by now uncontrollably thick and shaky with arousal."Do you want daddy to take care of you, baby? You and that beautiful rock solid cock of yours?"

"Yes, please. I'm so hard." Subby Harry is needy and helpless and entirely at Louis' mercy. Louis' cock zings again.

So. They are doing this. Louis cannot believe his luck. He loves Harry and Harry apparently still loves him. "Take me to your room. I want to fuck you in your bedroom, on your bed."

Without a word, Harry grabs Louis' hand and leads him out the room, down the corridor and up the stairs at speed, practically sprinting. They reach his bedroom in seconds - Louis realises with a pang of sadness that he has never been here before.

Harry stands expectantly in front of Louis, waiting to be told what happens next. Deliciously submissive as always, Louis thinks.

Harry feels as breathless and exhilarated by the certainty of Louis standing in front of him, eyes dark with arousal, as by his confession, by the fact that he stayed. Harry has been hopelessly, almost puppyishly in love with Louis for years, but he is not entirely clueless. He _knows_ the turmoil this whole thing costs Lou, and he appreciates what it must have taken for him to decide to stay and own up. Lou's declaration of love barely minutes earlier still rings in his ears (“I never stopped loving you”). He realises almost with a start that he trusts Louis. He may be many things (right now Harry can only think of the good ones); he might be economical with the truth sometimes and evade scrutiny when it does not suit him, but he has never lied to Harry.

And with that, any remaining misgivings that Harry might have had disappear. He is ready to give himself over to Louis, like he has done so many times before, but more and better this time, because he senses, without being able to articulate it fully while in lost in this mist of all-consuming desire, that if Louis has gone this far this time... Harry's jumbled thoughts vaguely circle this notion as he continues staring at Louis, reeling from Lou's powerful, magnetic energy, his unique musk. He licks his lips, anticipation butterflies dancing in his stomach.

The sight of Harry's tongue snaps Louis out of his own lustful reverie. Harry is impossibly handsome – the entire world agrees with Lou on this – but Louis thinks he has never seen anything as beautiful as this Harry, right now, all messy curls, bright eyes and kiss-swollen lips, proud yet submissive, aroused as fuck yet ready and willing to do what he's told. So ready; Louis can still read Harry's sexual needs and quirks clearly and instantly.

“Come here,” he orders, almost too harsh, but not quite. The distance between them is by no means large. Harry glides over it anyway, as if on air. And because he is a facetious, witty fucker, because the charge in the air threatens to overpower them both in its seriousness and momentousness, because he is Harry _fucking_ Styles, he decides right now is the time to bring some levity into the situation:

“I got no pants.” He deadpans, and grins, looking Lou straight in the eye, as if daring him. Louis tosses his head back and guffaws before remembering he is supposed to be in control here.

“Take off your shorts then, _Marcel_. Daddy is going to suck that pretty dick of yours, and he is going to suck it hard. But. You Are Not Allowed To Come. Can you be a good boy and do what daddy asks, darling?”

Harry has already left Marcel well behind and eagerly whipped off his shorts. He is back on, all in. He whimpers.

“What was that, Harry?”

“Yes, daddy. Please. I need you. It's been so long.”

So long... Lou leans in and whispers into Harry's ear. They are alone and there is no need to be quiet, but Louis knows how much it turns Harry on to be whispered to, especially if the whispers are hot and filthy. No one knows how to turn Harry on like Louis, and there is nothing that turns on Louis more than wrecking Harry one dirty whisper and cock suck and arse fingering at a time. Louis _lives_ to give Harry pleasure:

“That's right, my darling.” His lips touch the outlines of Harry's ear as they move; they both shiver at the same time. “You are such a little _slut_ for daddy's mouth and cock, aren't you?” Harry nods hard and fast as Louis drops down to his knees and, holding Harry's cock with just his index finger and thumb, slowly licks a fat stripe from the base to the head, swirling his tongue at the top and greedily licking the precum that Harry has been leaking like it is going out of fashion. He pulls off to carry on spewing increasingly incoherent and slurred filth in a low voice, his icy blue eyes seductively looking up at Harry through impossibly long eyelashes. He is not really aware of what he is saying anymore; it's all coming out without filter by now: “Such a fucking gorgeous dick, so ready for me, always, so willing... You make daddy so hard, darling – make me want to bloody just _wreck_ you, baby, claim you, tear your arse in two until you are begging me to stop...” He grabs hold of the base of Harry's throbbing cock with his whole left hand in a steady, solid grasp, and starts working him _properly_ , like Harry's cock deserves to be eaten – alternating between moving his mouth up and down while his tongue flickers, and sucking, sucking hard, with hollowed out cheeks.

Harry has been whimpering since the second Louis got hold of his dick. He cuts some figure standing naked on his bedroom carpet with Louis' head bobbing up and down between his legs. His breath keeps hitching in between whimpers, the sounds getting louder and more urgent each time. His hands are by his side because Louis did not give him permission to touch him, and his fists clench and unclench reflexively. His eyes are shut tight as if trying to stem the waves of utterly overwhelming pleasure that keep riding through him. He is getting closer – it never takes long with Louis and with everything that has gone on , he could hit a new record today. His knees begin to tremble and then his whole body is shaking with the effort not to come. He starts babbling, sounding drunk on the almost unbearable feeling, making even less sense than Louis was a second ago:

“Louis... Lou... Please... So... Oh God... So g-good... I... Yes, yes, d-da... _Please_...”

Louis pulls off to admire his handiwork: “Look at you, baby. Look at the _state_ of you. You are fucking _high_ on this. My darling loves daddy eating his cock, doesn't he?”

Harry nods again. His eyes are still shut; if Louis so much as blows on his dick right now he will come, he knows it.

“Do you want to come, Harry? Look at me now. Do you want to come?”

Harry snaps his eyes open and looks down at Louis. The sight of Louis on his knees in front of him looking up – his half-open lips smeared in a mixture of his own spit and Harry's precum, his cheekbones flushed and sharp as fuck, his eyes all pupil, dark and commanding – is almost enough to send him over the edge. He takes a deep breath and tries to get a grip on himself. He has been asked a question. What was it? Oh...

“Yes, please, daddy. I want to come.”

“Listen to me, Harry. I want you to grab my head with your hands and fuck my mouth. Do you hear me? Can you do that? Push that pretty dick of yours hard into my mouth and shoot your come as far down my throat as you can?”

Louis' words run through Harry like lightning and he gives the loudest, longest moan yet. “Yes. Fuck, daddy. I can do that.”

Louis smiles and opens his mouth wide, all the instruction Harry needs. It takes Harry no more than five thrusts, each thrust a little harder and accompanied by a low, almost feral grunt, to come the longest and hardest he ever has with a loud scream, his spunk shooting endlessly into Lou's mouth, his orgasm rippling through him almost painfully, his thrusts continuing all the way through while Louis keeps swallowing and humming his approval in encouragement. When the last spasm of pleasure is spent he pulls out and falls to his knees in one fluid motion, and he kisses Lou hard, his tongue straight into Lou's mouth, hoping to find some of his own come to eat. He does; he mewls and squirms a bit, and his cock twitches again.

In his eagerness, Harry has forgotten to wait for instructions, but Louis is inclined to let this one pass, because the feeling of Harry's tongue licking into his mouth in search of a little bit of jizz to munch on – something he has always loved doing – is hot and dirty enough to make Louis forgive him anything.

Still on their knees, they pull off from the kiss to stare at one another lovingly, dreamily, the old hypnotised fondness still in place. Its unacknowledged obviousness – the biggest elephant in the room the music industry has ever known – has always been a source of fascination to fans and of mirth to those close by. The Louis And Harry Mutual Admiration Society (LAHMAS for short), James and Ben used to jokingly refer to it as. Harry still has the toy llama they gave him as a joke; Louis gave his to Doris, unable to look at it anymore but unwilling to part with it for good.

They are breathless and exhilarated, and the thought of what might be next (Louis hasn't come yet) makes them feel alive with possibility.

Louis breaks the spell first, because he is the boss. “You alright?” he asks, nonchalantly, as if this was a “good morning” greeting, and not an implied “ready for round two?” Harry does not have the strength to nod; he hopes the dazed smile hanging on his lips will do the talking for him.

“You liked that, did you?” Louis continues, slowly getting back into his daddy groove .

Harry knows he is expected to talk now: “Yes, daddy. The best. But I want...” He stops, unsure of himself.

“What do you want, Harry? You can have anything you want as long as you ask me for it. Anything.” Louis has never meant anything more in earnest in his life.

“Iwantyoutofuckme.” It comes out quickly, as if through shyness. Which is funny, really. They both know this is where all roads lead – to Harry with his arse full of Louis' cock, face on the pillow, screaming – but Harry saying it, spelling it out, _begging_ for it, represents a kind of messed up, sexy foreplay for both of them. They know this and they feel this, instinctively. They are made for one another.

Hearing this Lou finally lets himself palm his so far untouched cock. Christ. He is so hard and turned on it hurts. He squeezes a little and it feels so good he has to tilt his head back and let out a shaky, whiny breath, just as it comes to him in a flash how infinitely better than his hand through thick jogging bottoms _Harry_ will feel. “I can't wait to be inside you, Haz,” he spits out through gritted teeth. “I can't wait to feel your arse all tight around my dick.” Harry groans at the words, at the thought, and closes his eyes, swaying slightly. “Get your things.” This is an old joke. _Get your things_ means _get the lube and condoms and any toys we might fancy using_. It is shorthand for _and now at last I am going to fuck you_.

Harry scrambles to his feet and goes to reach into his bedside drawer. He pulls out a condom and a tube of lube, and chucks them on the bed. Louis notices how within easy reach these items are kept, and the fact that Harry has brought up no toys. A part of his brain wants to ascribe meaning to these facts, to find out what sexual universe Harry is inhabiting at the moment and, most importantly, _with whom_ , but he knows he has no right to. “Lie down on the bed and spread your legs,” he orders, his thoughts making him sound a little rougher than he intended. If Harry notices or minds the roughness he does not let on; he does what he is told. He is getting hard again. Louis quickly strips and kneels between Harry's legs, holding the bottle of lube. He leans down and whispers again: “I am going to open you up for my cock now, darling.“ Harry opens his mouth to say something but can't; he looks and feels so lost in lust that he could not spell his own name if his life depended on it.

Louis looks down at Harry – pliant, soft, post-orgasmic, non-verbal Harry lying on the bed, quite clearly and simply just waiting to be fucked – and he feels almost dizzy with all the things he wants. He wants to run his hands over every inch of Harry's body. He wants to trace the butterfly and the fern first with his finger and then his tongue. He wants to worship Harry like he deserves, like he did in Orlando, as the seconds blend seamlessly into minutes then into hours then into days in a wordless, endless tangle of flesh and limbs. But there is no time. He needs to fuck Harry, and he needs to fuck him hard, and he needs to come even harder. With his hand dripping in lube he circles Harry's rim with his index finger once, twice, and pushes it in to the first knuckle. Slowly, but not too slowly; he is impatient.

Harry gives a gasp, as in surprise. It is not like he wasn't expecting this (his entire body is taut in anticipation like a harp string, primed for this), but the feeling of it, of having a bit of Lou inside him again, after all the hoping and pining, after all the rationalising and denials to himself, almost feels too much to bear. His sphincter muscle spasms around Louis' finger and he lifts up his hips involuntarily as his arsehole hungrily sucks in the rest. His cock, hard again, bounces on his belly.

“Stay still,” Louis growls. He is sweating with concentration and steadies himself with his left hand on Harry's hip as he continues. Muscle memory takes over. Middle finger, scissoring, ring finger, more stretching. As he brushes Harry's prostate almost casually Harry's hips buck again.

“Sorry, daddy. I can't help it. It feels so good. Please, Lou... Daddy. _Please_.”

“Please what, Harry?” Louis' fingers probe the spot again, a little harder this time, but just the once. He can't hep it. If “Teasing Harry Styles In Bed” was an Olympic sport, Louis Tomlinson would hold all medals and records.

“Please fuck me, Louis. I need you inside me. I need you now.” Harry's voice has dropped an octave and is languidly breathy and slow. It's like in his desperation he is almost done with this “daddy” shit. Lou loves driving Harry so wild with desire that he forgets all the rules and all the games, that he drops all pretence. Without a word he gently slides his fingers out and puts the condom on while Harry turns over and offers his arse to him. Lou grabs Harry's hips, and finally, finally, plunges in all the way in one smooth motion, just as harshly as they both need it. They scream at the same time. Louis pauses for the feeling to sink in, to allow them both to appreciate the moment fully. “We are fucking” the stillness seems to say to them.

“Fuck, Harry. Fuck.” Louis pants, sounding crazed with need. “This is amazing. You are amazing.” He starts pumping at last, unable to hold himself back any longer. “You feel...” he punctuates each word with a thrust. “You. Feel. So. Fucking. Good. Baby.”

“I have missed you so much, LouLou.” Harry is sobbing with pleasure and relief. “There is nothing like this. Please give it to me, daddy. Give it to me hard. I can take it. My arse, my body – they are all yours for you to do what you want.”

Louis had almost forgotten that he is not the only one who can talk dirty. Harry gives as good as he gets. Harry is a fucking God.

“I won't last, my love. You feel too good. Turn over so I can look at your face when I come.”

As Harry turns Lou leans down to kiss him. It is a filthy clash of lips and tongues and spit, hungry and desperate. He reaches for Harry's cock, hard as a rock again. Jesus. Louis is not joking when he says he won't last long. He plunges back in and carries on thrusting, relentlessly pounding Harry's prostate, eyes shut tight as he holds on to Harry's hips for dear life. Harry's arms are stretched above him, pushing against the headboard for leverage so that he can meet Louis thrust by thrust. His voice is a continuous high-pitched hum of pleasure that only breaks to egg Louis on breathlessly:

“Yes, daddy... Just like that... More...”

“I'm going to come, Haz. I want you to come with me. Can you do it again, for me? I know you can.”

Harry tugs at his cock erratically. Each thrust of Louis' continues to press on his sweet spot with engineered precision and the pleasure is out of this world. Oh, yes. He can come again.

Louis pauses, and for a second that feels like a lifetime they stare at each other, suspended in time, each poised on the edge of their own precipice. They stare in awe, hard and lovingly, and quietly mouth “I love you”, in unison, because they are Harry and Louis and they are made for one another. The Universe may have teased, but it really never had any other plans for these two.

Then Louis starts moving again, fast and hard, and screams: “Now, baby, NOW.”

And he starts coming, moaning a litany of meaningless nonsense – “Harry” and swearwords and pure yells of pleasure all garbled up – as an intense orgasm rides through him in waves, again and again, making him shake and spasm. Harry follows close by, mewling and dizzy at a second orgasm that feels as good as the first, and covering his stomach in a couple of weak splashes.

As the moaning and shaking subsides and they slowly come down, they open their eyes and stare at each other again, breathless. They have never felt so good in their lives. Harry giggles, high as a kite – Harry Styles' mind-altering substance of choice will always be earth-shattering orgasms delivered by Louis Tomlinson. Louis smiles almost shyly. Seconds pass, and neither of them moves. Harry knows that Louis is unwilling to pull out until he has to, until his cock has completely dropped off again. He loves how Louis likes to stay inside him for as long as he can.

For a fleeting moment Harry feels anxious about what will happen next. Will Louis stay? Will he become self-conscious or scared again and go? Louis notices the almost imperceptible dark cloud sweeping through Harry's face. It pains him to know that he is the cause of it. Clearly, his work making things right is not finished yet. He pulls out at last and falls down at Harry's side with an exhausted, spent sigh, sliding his arm over Harry's waist (ignoring the drying come currently sitting there), and nudging Harry into little spoon position with his knee. He kisses the back of his head softly.

“Thank you, Hazza. I love you. I want it all with you. I never want to be without you again. Later we will talk and you can remind me what a wanker I was, and I will make sure you understand how much I adore the last ridiculously long hair on that ridiculously beautiful head of yours, and how what is inside you is a million times more awesome even than the already awesomely gorgeous outside. But, now, sleep, yeah?”

Harry smiles contentedly and yawns. His eyelids are drooping already. Sleep, yeah, he thinks. But first, an old in-joke. Tiredness enhances his hilarious self as he allows himself to be 17-year-old Harry again:

“Lou, can I give you a blowjob?”

He feels Louis laughing gently into the back of his neck.

“I'd love it, if you'd just wait.”

They continue to giggle weakly, Louis' arm sneaking lazily up his gorgeous boy's chest, his hand coming to rest where it always used to live: over the bird, his fingers entwined with Harry's. The way they always did. Holding hands as they fall asleep in each other's arms, warm and safe and not at all lost. Never again lost.

 


End file.
